


Connection

by Ymae



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Giving/receiving comfort, Phone Call, Pre Swan Queen, confusing timeline, if you read between the lines?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 20:30:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16126166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ymae/pseuds/Ymae
Summary: “Regina? Is that you?”“Yes,” Regina whispers, sounding terrified.Regina feels lonely in Hyperion Heights and calls Emma to tell her a story.





	Connection

**Author's Note:**

> Just a sweet little piece that, I hope, can stand well enough on its own. Enjoy!

“ _Emma,”_ a voice says into the phone. 

Emma frowns at the screen that reads  _Unknown Number_ and keeps blinking weirdly, zoning in and out as though processing something irritating. 

Out of some instinct, Emma doesn’t end the call; instead, she moves closer the window in her study, looking out over the night sky, and says, “Hi.” 

“Emma,” the voice repeats, and it sounds almost like a sob. Maybe it’s just the bad connection. “Thank god, you answered. I can’t—” the voice cracks, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and Emma’s eyes widen. 

“Regina? Is that you?”

“Yes,” Regina whispers, sounding terrified.

“Are you okay?”

The phone crackles. Emma presses it closer to her ear, as though that could steady Regina’s quick, uneven breathing. 

“I need to be.” 

“Regina, where are you?” Emma asks firmly, turning and leaning against the window frame. She feels the last sun rays warming her back. “Henry is with you, right? Is he okay?”

A pause, short and tense. “How old is he?”

“Who, Henry? Regina, is this a joke? So it _was_ you calling and hanging up all this last month! I never thought you could be so childish. Or, I guess—”

“Emma, listen to me,” Regina interrupts, her voice almost pleading. It’s such a stark contrast to the Regina who Emma had just seen, barely two hours ago, her face soft and serene, crumbling only a little when she’d looked at their son. “Please. I need you to tell me Henry’s age.”

“He’s eighteen,” Emma offers, confused. She steps away from the window and walks up to her desk, rummaging through the drawers for her keys. If something’s wrong with Regina, she won’t hesitate; Killian and she are supposed to have some kind of late date thingy tonight, but she’s told him that should Regina need her, especially now, he’ll just have to deal. He wasn’t pleased, but Emma really doesn’t care. “Hey, what’s going on? Are you feeling empty nest-y again? Because Henry’s not leaving for another two months. I can still come over with some wine and tissues, though.” 

“No, don’t!” Regina says frantically. Emma grabs the keys, already heading for the stairs. “Your Regina is probably crying in her room right now, trying to pretend she isn’t. She’ll get over it… in theory, at least,” Regina adds, so quiet Emma has to strain to hear. She pauses in her movements, a mental image of Regina crying in her room catching up to her before the other weirdness does. 

“Hey! Is she… I mean, are you… okay? Wait, who are you? What do you want?” 

“I’m Regina Mills,” Regina says, adding, almost sadly, “just not _your_ Regina. But… I need to get my mind off some things, and I need to help someone else do that, too. Would you… would you stay?” 

“Of course,” Emma agrees, already lowering the phone from her ear and typing out a message to Killian. Whatever. She doesn’t know why he keeps insisting on going on midnight dates like some newly smitten couple, anyway. “What do you need me to do?” 

Regina hesitates, and Emma can almost hear her wringing her hands. “So,” she begins quietly, “you may want to look at this through a strictly hypothetical situation. Say, we have a granddaughter, and she’s in some need of cheering up. She’s just like her father; she’d like to hear some stories of before she was born. I… am not in the state of mind to think of any. What do we tell her?” 

Emma slumps down on her office chair ungracefully, folding her legs beneath her, contemplating. “Okay, so what kind of stories does she like? The adventure ones, or, like, everyday-family stuff?” 

“Family stuff,” Regina decides. Her breathing seems to slow a little. “She loves to hear from when her mom and dad met but… well, you can’t know any of that yet. So, maybe just something small, something peaceful.” 

“Alright,” Emma says, her mind already racing, racking her memory for _anything._ It’s probably Regina who needs to be cheered up, and Emma doesn’t know why she’s inventing a hypothetical granddaughter for that, but go figure. It doesn’t matter. “How do I address her?”

“Lucy,” Regina blurts, a little too quickly. “Her name is Lucy.”

“Okay, _Lucy,”_ Emma begins, making her voice deeper, narrating, “once upon a time, there was this camping trip. Your… grandma… and I thought it’d be a good idea to get Henry out into nature a little more, because at that time he was deep into that book and writing shit.”

“She’s _ten,_ Emma,” Regina admonishes, but Emma can hear her smile. It’s a good story; surely Regina remembers it. And if she maybe takes the whole granddaughter thing a little too seriously, so be it. Emma’s evening is cleared, free to tell all the stories Regina needs. 

A message pops up on the screen, probably an angry one from Killian, and Emma winces and swipes it away.

“Sorry, I guess, Lucy. So, because Henry’d been a miserable grump all week before the trip, when he suggested we create a barrier around the camping spot to keep us from using magic, we complied. It was the worst mistake of my life,” Emma says gravely, screwing up her features to convey to her hypothetical granddaughter _just_ how mislead they’d been. “Henry, of course, had a great time. Regina and me? Not so much.” 

Emma continues with the story about a flying platypus—no, those should  _not_ exist here in Maine—a thoroughly disturbed Blue Fairy (no regrets about that one), a week’s supply of marshmallows, and, of course, a burned tent. Because Regina Mills is a pyromaniac who cannot physically keep herself from setting things aflame, be it with magic or not. 

Regina snorts at that. It sounds a little less agonized than before, which Emma takes as a success.

Then, she comes to the best part.

The part where Henry had written down and illustrated it all in comic-style, laughing and spinning around the living room, grinning and hugging his moms and giving Regina a beautifully drawn picture of her standing beside a burning tent, her dark eyes blazing brighter than the flames. He’d told them he’d loved the trip, and considering how depressed he’d been months after breaking up with Violet, it had been a joy to watch. 

When Emma mentions the picture, she thinks she hears something over the phone, like sniffling, but she must have imagined that.

When Emma mentions the three of them spinning on the living room carpet, it sounds like sobbing; but the connection still isn’t ideal, and—

When Emma mentions the hugging, Regina is crying, stifled and choked, but full-on crying into the phone. Emma finishes her story and listens for a while, her stomach churning. She doesn’t ask if Regina is okay; she’s clearly not, which is, in turn, less than alright for Emma. She turns the phone on speaker and opens her laptop and a couple of tools from bounty hunter days. 

“Regina?” she asks after a concerningly long while. 

“I’m fine,” Regina answers quickly, her voice even more mangled on speaker. “Maybe just… maybe stories without me would be good. Just you and Henry… please.” She inhales deeply. “God, Emma, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much.” 

“You, too, Regina,” Emma replies distractedly, even though they see each other practically every day. Still, she misses Regina already. Maybe now that Killian and her date are blown off, she can drop by Mills Mansion sometime later in the night. Even if Regina truly is crying in her room because her baby boy is going away to college. Especially then. 

“I shouldn’t be telling you any of this,” this other Regina suddenly says, frightened, “the timeline—“ she clamps her mouth shut, probably in order not to spill anything further. 

“I’ll take a forgetting potion, if you like,” Emma promises, not planning on it. She connects yet another data stick to her laptop, and finally, it works. A window pops open.

“Regina,” Emma says carefully, staring at the data. Judging by the garbled information she sees, this is something she shouldn’t want to mess with, but depending on Regina’s answer now, she’ll do it anyway. “Are you and… your Henry, are you okay?” 

“Of course,” Regina assures, voice tight like she suspects the question for the test it is. Emma can still hear the tremble in it, and her resolve hardens. 

“Regina, listen carefully,” Emma says. “Is it possible that right now, you’re staying in a place called Hyperion Heights, Seattle?”

Regina draws a sharp breath.

“And,” Emma continues, before Regina can utter any protest, “might it be that you’re currently also staying in a for an advanced tracker undecipherable timezone—formally, you seem to be in my present time, but some things don’t add up. Names, dates, locations…” 

“Emma,” Regina breathes. Then she changes tracks, pleading, “Emma, please take that potion. You can’t alter the timeline. There’s too much at stake. I never should’ve called… I’m so sorry—”

“You called me because you felt alone,” Emma says softly, not understanding any of the information she’s just received, but this tiny bit, she knows without doubt. “That’s what I’ve always wanted you to do, reach out to people when you feel like everything is too much. I’m coming, Regina,” she promises, still smiling softly, “I’m coming. Just hang in there.” 

She ends the call before Regina can answer. 


End file.
